


Diogenes

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Greg is a Rascal, Humour, M/M, Married mystrade, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Playful Greg, Shenanigans, The Diogenes Club, Top Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 23:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12899646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: There were plenty of reasons to marry Mycroft Holmes. Membership of The Diogenes Club just happens to be a cheeky bonus. As Greg Holmes-Lestrade finds himself in mischievous mood, The Diogenes is in for quite the Christmas miracle.





	Diogenes

The membership card arrived on December the 1st.

Greg sat in bed to admire it, tilting its shiny gold lustre towards the glow of the lamp as his husband dressed for work in the half-darkness around him. The rest of today's post laid unopened on the duvet; Greg was far too interested in this bit.

 

 **_THE DIOGENES CLUB:_ ** **_  
_ ** _D. I. GREGORY HOLMES-LESTRADE_

 

Greg never belonged to a swanky club before. It was one of the many benefits he'd so far discovered of being joined in wedded bliss to Mycroft Holmes.

"Really?" he'd laughed, four years ago now, a few months into what Mycroft had then called their _'arrangement'._ "I can't believe your posh club won't let you just rock up with your bit-of-rough. How unfair."

"You can _visit,"_ Mycroft had purred at him, greatly amused. "But membership is only granted automatically to current members' immediate family - such as a brother, a son or, in this modern age, a spouse. You would otherwise need several members' recommendations, and then be required to attend a formal dinner to ascertain your suitability. And, as you don't know the difference between a soup spoon and a dessert spoon, dear heart, you'd be unlikely to pass."

Greg had feigned a sigh of resignation. "Alright…" he'd said, and nestled into Mycroft's chest. "Have to wait 'til you marry me, then… good job I'm patient."

Four happy years later - and Mycroft had.

Which meant that Greg got a shiny gold card in the post, and the right to cause as much trouble at The Diogenes as his heart could ever dream.

"That's a rather tantalising grin," his husband remarked, intrigued. He took a break from buttoning up his shirt to come across to the bed, kissing Greg fondly on the forehead. "Dare I ask?"

Greg showed him, beaming. The card flashed in the lamplight.

"Ahh…" Mycroft's mouth curved, delighted as he surveyed the congratulatory letter. "Your prize at last."

"I know, right?" said Greg. "I mean… the gorgeous wedding, the month-long honeymoon and the companionship for life are all well and good, Myke. But this... _this_ is what I really wanted."

"Beast," Mycroft said. "You used me for club membership. I should have known."

"Sorry, baby. It's tough here at the top. I used you for sex as well, if it helps."

"Dd you now?" Mycroft remarked. His eyes glinted as he nuzzled at the side of Greg's neck. "How fascinating. I thought I was using you."

"Damn... s'probably why we fell in love."

"Mm," Mycroft mused. "That will explain it, no doubt."

Greg found himself growing suddenly rather distracted from his new membership card. It was something about the presence of his gorgeous new husband in just a dress shirt and sock garters. He hummed happily as Mycroft began to bite gently at his neck, and pushed the letter aside.

It was a sign of the chaos he intended to cause, Greg thought, that within fifteen minutes of gaining admittance to The Diogenes Club, he and Myke were fucking on top of the letter.

He didn't bother smoothing the crumples out before he framed it.

He kinda liked them.

They added a certain _je ne sais quoi._

 

*

 

Greg's first evening at The Diogenes was December the 4th - a Monday. Myke had to work late, and Greg had no intention of sitting miserably at home by himself.

"There's no reason to be nervous, if you are," Mycroft told him on the phone at lunchtime, his voice a sleek and gentle rumble in Greg's ear. "As a full member, you're permitted to go wherever you wish. And my standing there is of such that you needn't walk on eggshells."

"Don't worry, baby. I'm not nervous. What d'you mean, 'walk on eggshells'?"

"Politics can be a vicious game to be involved in. Fortunately, Gregory, you have just married the unrivalled champion. If you're challenged in any way, explain who you are, and to whom you are lawfully wedded, and you will immediately be allotted the respect you deserve."

Greg grinned, rocking back in his desk chair with a squeak. "Why do I get the feeling you're enjoying this?"

"I have, perhaps, wished to parade you at The Diogenes for some time," Mycroft purred.

Greg's grin threatened to split off his face. "So - I can make myself at home? You mean it? You're not going to get any trouble for it."

"Well... there are a _few_ rules that, if you flouted, you would be asked politely to desist… and if you then continued to flout them, your membership might be questioned. No verbal communication in the common areas is the major one. But otherwise, you are quite at leave to relax."

"And I can go anywhere? Really?"

"Ah… except _my_ office. All other areas are open to you."

Greg laughed, putting his feet up on his work desk. "Right," he said. "So the _only_ place out of bounds is my own bloody husband's office?"

Mycroft's voice warmed richly with amusement. "Unless you are invited into it, yes. I have work to do."

Greg immediately started making plans to flout this rule. Maybe not for the first week or two, he thought - lull Myke into a false sense of complacency. But flouted it would be, nonetheless.

"Will you step out and take a break with me, now and then?" he asked.

Mycroft's voice curled with his smile. "Of course. We - shan't be engaging in lavish displays of public affection, Gregory. It is a gentleman's club, not a sixth form disco. But I shall step away from my desk now and then to ensure that you are being treated appropriately, and that you are being provided every comfort..."

Even after all this time, Greg thought, he still got little shivers when Mycroft talked that way. He'd tried not to find it sexy when Myke turned the power on. He'd tried so hard.

He couldn't help it, though. The man was just so appealing.

"Do I have to wear anything in particular?" he asked, diverting the subject in an attempt not to get turned on at work.

Mycroft made a noise of idle disinterest. "We haven't a formal dress code in place, no. The usual expectation is smartly-kept day attire."

 _Smartly-kept day attire._ Greg was getting better at working out these codes.

"'No trainers, no tracksuits'...?" he checked.

Mycroft laughed with delight. Greg grinned as his laughter rang down the phone, falling more and more in love with him every moment. "Quite," Mycroft said at last, when his mirth had subsided. "Neither of those items. Something smart-casual will do, darling. Perhaps not jeans. Though, if you _wish_ to stride around the place in jeans, nothing in the membership code will stop you… and, once they find out who you are, none of the staff will stop you either."

"What about the other members?" Greg said. He bit his lip, grinning. "All your posh pals."

"Heaven help me, Gregory. These men are not my 'pals'. They are club members. I despise most of them with a passion. Aggravate as many as you want. They need me far more than I need them."

"Really?" Greg laughed, reaching for his coffee. "Why the fuck do you keep being a member?"

"I like the port," Mycroft remarked. "I must go, darling. Japan will be calling in five minutes. A car shall collect you from home at seven."

 

*

 

That night, at half past seven, Greg selected a suitably comfortable leather sofa by the fire, settled himself the full length of it with his feet up, and sent his mum a beaming selfie.

 

 _Hi mum, guess where I am???_  
_Myke has brought me to his posh club. I'm allowed now we're married._  
_I put my best jumper on, don't worry. Love you loads xxx_

 

As he waited for her to reply, Greg pretended not to be observing the reactions of the room around him.

Not that some of them were bothering to keep it subtle, he thought.

One old tosspot had nearly lost his mind already. He was jabbing at a button on the wall with the end of his stick, fuming towards Greg with a furious silent horror. Greg wondered if it was the selfie, the slumping or the casual dark brown cords that had set the old bastard off. Either way, the guy's eyes were nearly bulging from his head.

Greg ignored him, politely, and smiled to himself as his mum's reply arrived.

 

 _ooooo look at you!!! that is a lovely jumper sweetheart._  
_so proud of you. say hello to favourite son in law for me._  
_both still ok for xmas day??? can't wait xxxxx_

 

Attendants had arrived on the scene. Greg watched out of the corner of his eyes as Lord Grumpy of Grumpington Hollow gestured furiously at him with _The Times,_ and the two bag-footed attendants duly came over.

One leant low to his ear, a model of discretion. Greg helpfully inclined his head.

"Excuse me, sir," the attendant said. His voice was barely a breath. "Would you like me to assist you in finding your desired location?"

Greg flashed him a friendly smile. "S'alright," he whispered. "I'm good, thanks."

The attendant hesitated, glancing quickly at his colleague. He lowered his voice even further.

"I'm afraid The Diogenes is a private club, sir. Only members are permitted to - "

In a single motion, Greg slid the magic card from his pocket. He offered it with a grin and no hard feelings.

The attendant checked it, blinking in astonishment.

As he read the name _Holmes-Lestrade,_ Greg watched the colour drain at once from the poor guy's face. The attendant handed back the card in an instant, his eyes wide with restrained panic.

"Forgive me, sir," he stammered. "You are, of course... I - I had no idea you..."

"It's fine," Greg whispered, warmly. "Honest. I know I'm not your usual type."

He winked.

The attendant flushed; a reluctant smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"Who's Grumpy over there?" Greg asked, with a flick of his eyes towards the tosser now watching proceedings in open-mouthed outrage.

The attendant's voice could not possibly have become any quieter. "Ah… Lord Marston is - one of our more traditional... 'types'. I shall ensure he knows that you are a member, inspector. I am deeply sorry to have disturbed you."

"No worries," murmured Greg, his eyes bright. "Hey, you - do drinks here, don't you? Can I be cheeky and get a coffee?"

The attendant bowed, deeply. "At once, sir."

The two of them padded off - one to fix Greg a coffee; the other to tell Lord Marston to put his knickers in the wash. Words to that effect, Greg thought, anyway.

He watched slyly from across the room, as the situation was explained to the stuffy old sod.

There was initial disbelief, and a silent blustering of outrage - some demand, from the look of things, to be allowed to inspect Greg's membership card for himself.

And then Greg spotted, clear as day, the very moment that a certain name was whispered in his ear - and Grumpy's every possible argument vanished. He backed into immediate and red-faced silence. The attendant left, and Grumpy returned to his newspaper, and that was that.

When Greg's coffee arrived, it had two chocolate bourbons placed at the side of it.

"Thanks," he mouthed, beaming. The attendant bowed so low he nearly smelled the carpet. The guy then shuffled off without a word. Greg reached for a bourbon, dunked it happily in his coffee, and returned to his mum's latest text.

By the end of the long and cosy evening that followed, Greg had noticed something rather fun.

Nobody else got bourbons with their coffee.

 

*

 

A week went by. Greg decided that he liked The Diogenes.

"You seem to be settling in nicely," Mycroft remarked, amused, on one of the rare occasions that Greg was permitted into his office. "The staff certainly seem fond of you, anyway."

"Aren't they nice?" Greg said. "Lucy told me earlier that they're taking out a Classic Cars subscription for me. How sweet is that? D'you think they'd get me The Beano as well?"

Mycroft's eyes danced with delight. He steepled his long fingers, surveying Greg over the top of them.

"You're definitely adding some life and colour to the place," he said.

Greg grinned across the desk. "Trying my best," he said. He sipped the glass of port that his husband had handed him. "Crikey, this _is_ nice."

"Isn't it?"

"So… when do Christmas decorations go up?" Greg asked, glancing around. "D'you have to do your own office, or will the staff sort it out for you?"

Mycroft's eyes crinkled at the edges. "You are charming. Truly, you are."

"What? I'm just surprised they've not...  _no,"_ Greg gasped in horror, realising.  _"S_ _eriously?_ They _don't_ decorate for Christmas?"

"This is The Diogenes, Gregory. It's not a garden centre."

"That's ridiculous. How can somewhere _not_ decorate for Christmas?" Greg laughed into his port, shaking his head as he drank. "Miserable old bastards. I should just fetch along that spare tree we've got in the garage, love… set it up nicely somewhere. Flashing rainbow lights and really ugly ornaments."

Greg had never seen a wince and a smirk cross one face at the same time.

"I suppose there's nothing in the rules," Mycroft said, and discreetly sipped his port.

Greg grinned. He was honestly rather tempted.

"So… what did you want me for?" he asked. "Tom said it was important."

"Who is Tom?"

"The attendant. The one you sent to fetch me."

"How have you learned all their names?" Mycroft asked, bewildered.

"I asked them." Greg sipped his port, masking a grin as he held his husband's dark-eyed and glittering gaze. "Wasn't that much of a challenge, to be honest. They just up and _told_ me, can you believe? Didn't even set me riddles or magic quests. It's like you can just ask someone's name and they'll hand it right over."

Mycroft's mouth curved. "I see."

"So what _did_ you want?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "You're staring at me kinda intently."

"Am I?" Mycroft murmured.

"Yep. Either I've left a wet towel on the bed, or you've gotten yourself distracted from running the country."

"Do I need a reason to request my husband's company?" Mycroft said, even as his eyes gleamed. "I merely hadn't seen you in a number of hours. I wished to check upon your welfare. Now I find myself the recipient of baseless accusations."

"This is The Diogenes, Mycroft," said Greg. "It's not a bordello. You can't just summon me in here for you to fuck across your desk when you're bored."

"You are a scoundrel," Mycroft told him, in a low breath. "Are you aware of that?"

"A _bit_ aware," Greg said. "Not completely." He ran his tongue across his lower lip. "Show me?"

In one motion, Mycroft tossed back his remaining port.

He then stood up, loosened his tie, and locked the door.

As Greg dug his fingers into the edge of Mycroft's desk, pressing his cheek flat to the gleaming mahogany, the urge to cry out was overwhelming. He arched with it, panting as loudly as he dared and quaking as the pounding only drove deeper into his body. Mycroft's grasp hardened at his hips; his teeth rasped over the back of Greg's neck. The ensuing spike of pleasure had Greg biting down into his lip, shaking with the need to moan.

"Don't you dare," Mycroft breathed.

Greg swallowed, screwing his eyes tightly shut. "Then s-stop making it so good," he whimpered.

"If you utter a sound, Gregory Holmes-Lestrade, you will be sorry."

"F-Fuck, love...  _Myke..."_

"Hush," Mycroft whispered - as if they were home like they were on Sunday morning, slowly making love for hours, soft with each other and taking their time; as if Mycroft wasn't half-dressed and fucking Greg across his paperwork in near-silence. Greg wanted to howl. He felt so _fucked,_ so turned on, that he was trembling. Nothing should feel this good. "Take it, Greg..." his husband breathed. "Bite down, darling. Not a sound."

Greg's hands turned immediately into claws.

As they sped up, Mycroft was forced to sacrifice a glove to staunch his husband's frantic whimpers and moans. Greg came sinking his teeth into it, ruining the soft Italian leather with a bite-mark as his whole body heaved and he poured himself in floods over Mycroft's hand. Myke managed to climax in total silence - one fist bunched in the back of Greg's shirt, the other hand digging into his hip, pinning Greg to the desk as he shuddered with the force of his release.

They cuddled for a while in Myke's chair - a contented tangle of limbs, kisses and soft reassurances - then tidied Greg up as best they could. The fair-isle sweater covered most of the crumpling, which was handy. Myke called for scotch, looking far too pleased with himself, and drank it as the spark in his eye softened to a satisfied gleam.

"You owe me a pair of gloves," he said, as he finally ushered Greg out. "Now go and smile knowingly at Lord Marston, beast, and stop distracting me. Some of us have work to do."

 

*

 

On December the 12th, there was an incident that Greg had been expecting for a while.

It began as he waited in one of the speaking areas for Mycroft, browsing today's copy of _The Telegraph._ He wasn't interested in reading it - just wondering if the crossword was any good. Mycroft had said he would be finished half an hour ago, and Greg was looking forward to going home and to bed.

He finally found the crossword, folded the paper back and glanced around for a pen. As he did, he was surprised to have it snatched from his grasp.

Greg blinked, startled, as a bloke he recognised vaguely as a property tycoon stalked off across the room with his newspaper.

"Steady on," he said, injured. "S'no need for that."

The man shot him a contemptuous sneer. "For heaven's sake," he spat. "You weren't _reading_ it."

"Still. Be nice, mate."

A coil of revulsion passed over the man's public schoolboy features. _"'Mate'?"_ he jeered. "My great-grandfather was a Rothschild. I own half of Milton Keynes. Don't you dare _'mate'_ me."

Greg's expression quirked.

"I wasn't offering to, as it happens. Happily married." He held up the wedding ring. "I'm Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade's partner? I'm the Lestrade bit. It's Greg, if you're interested."

I-Own-Half-of-Milton-Keynes regarded him in utter disgust.

"Yes..." he said, coldly. "As well we all know. As well we all have to endure. But let me tell you this…"

His eyes flashed viciously.

"Holmes might have a penchant for a spot of jolly East End copper. But _I'm_ not going to bow and scrape to you. And you can count on that."

He stormed from the room without a backwards glance, red spots of anger flaring in his cheeks.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft appeared in his coat. His umbrella was hooked ready over his arm.

"Forgive me," he said at once. In the absence of other people, he leant down to kiss Greg gently on the forehead. "I confess I took the opportunity to order your final Christmas gifts - and then the Chancellor called, and of course the wretched man can never get to the point with any speed…"

"S'alright," said Greg, smiling. "I made a friend while you waited."

"A friend?"

"Yeah. Lovely guy. Owns half of Milton Keynes."

"Oh... Barclay Hamilton-Mills. His great-grandfather was a Rothschild." Mycroft's brow contracted. "You... made _friends,_ you say? The man's not usually inclined to 'friends', unless he wants something."

"Well… I say 'friends'," Greg admitted. "He shouted at me, suggested you have a _'penchant for a spot of jolly East End copper',_  then stole my crossword."

Mycroft's expression darkened.

"I see," he murmured.

 

*

 

The next morning, towards the back of every newspaper, it was reported that the British government had withdrawn from a prospective project with the Hamilton-Mills Property Group.

It was a mildly surprising move, to those who cared about such things - and was expected to cost Hamilton-Mills several hundred million pounds.

A government adviser told the press that they would not be continuing the project with Hamilton-Mills in any capacity, but had instead secured the services of another property developer - with whom they looked forward to working.

Nobody was rude to Greg at The Diogenes again.

 

*

 

If anything, people were suddenly going out of their way to be nice.

On the 14th, Greg was thrilled to make his first actual friend - a Labour councillor called Pete, who spent several hours chatting with Greg in the speaking area over scotch. Pete had tabled a motion last year to admit their first female members, and been rejected with a surprisingly narrow margin. He was a working class boy from Newcastle who'd clawed his way into Oxford on a scholarship, and been denting noses ever since. Greg wondered if there were more decent people around here than he'd first thought.

The next night, he found himself sought out by a trio of High Court lawyers - who casually dropped into conversation that Mycroft had the final say on a piece of legislation they were hoping to be passed. They laughed so raucously at Greg's jokes that an attendant had to ask them all to keep it down.

Greg saw through it all in a heartbeat, of course.

It was obvious he was a means to an end - and almost adorable that they thought they were being clever... but it was fun to watch them hop, all the same.

As the days went by, more and more people started coming over to say hello. They all asked happily after Myke, who very rarely left his office, and they asked about Greg and Mycroft's plans for Christmas. They all wholeheartedly agreed with Greg that the place would look nicer with some festive sparkle. When it was realised that enough of them were in agreement, someone put through a motion.

Greg couldn't attend the meeting, busy at his niece's nativity play - which Myke had the cheek to dub 'a theatrical atrocity' - but they arrived the next night to find the place glittering as elegantly as the poshest hotel. Every wood-panelled wall had been bedecked with real holly and ivy, and there were towering trees glowing in every room, candles on every table, Victorian wreaths on each door and mulled wine being offered around by the smiling staff.

The motion had passed nearly three-to-one.

And weirdly, it was Greg that everyone came to thank.

"I wasn't even at the meeting," he said to every politician and banker and businessman who came over to congratulate him, grinning awkwardly as they made a point of shaking him by the hand. Mycroft passed no comment from the armchair beside Greg, reading The Telegraph in silence as his eyes glittered. "It was you lot that did all the voting and the debating," Greg said. "I just suggested it'd look nice with a bit of twinkle, that's all."

Before long, Greg had started to wonder.

Mycroft's favour was clearly a highly-sought prize. Some of these people had been waiting years for a chance to get in with The Ice Man, and Greg was now seen as the fastest route to do it. It didn't seemed to matter that he never passed along a word of all these business deals, proposals and economic measures to Mycroft. People still kept coming over to ask how his niece's nativity play had gone.

He suspected there was more fun to be had from this.

After a bored day's reflection at work, Greg decided to push it - in the name of Christmas spirit.

 

*

 

It was a _hideous_ jumper. Greg spent nearly two hours trailing Oxford Street in search of just the right one - and Christ, had he found it. Bright fucking green with a massive jolly reindeer on the front, sequinned holly in its antlers, and a red nose that was a squeezable pompom.

It was magnificent.

Mycroft nearly vomited when he saw it. Greg was amazed he didn't immediately drop to all fours and wretch, such was the horrendousness of the jumper. It was a wonder that Myke had let the thing in the house at all.

Greg wore it to The Diogenes on the 17th.

By the 19th, six more people were wearing them.

 

*

 

"What is this?" Mycroft enquired on the 20th, holding up the poster with one deeply arched eyebrow.

Greg had been summoned before his desk like a naughty schoolkid. He had to admit it was working for him a little.

"Secret Santa," said Greg. "You put your name down, take another name from the hat, then you have to buy a gift of a tenner or less - "

"Yes, thank you, darling. I'm _au fait_ with the convention of Secret Santa. What I'm perhaps more focused on is this part here - the notion of a _'Diogenes_ Secret Santa'. Is this _your_ doing?"

Greg bit down on a grin. _"My doing?"_ he said. "You mean, have I set it up? And yeah, as a matter of fact, I have. I thought it'd be nice."

"This is ludicrous," Mycroft said, smirking through his attempted severity. "You're just tormenting the poor fools now. You quite clearly have no interest in their various personal schemes, nor in passing the details along to me. I haven't had a single word from you about _any_ of the favours that I know they're asking."

"You're right," Greg said, with a smile. He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "I _don't_ care. Your job's your job, and I'm not getting involved. You'd probably have to shoot me if you told me even half of what you do - but _they_ don't know that, do they? Besides, I've got thirty people signed up for Secret Santa so far."

He nodded at the sign-up sheet Mycroft had also taken down from the noticeboard.

"See? It's a massive hit. I've ended up with Viscount Berkeley, by the way. D'you happen to know what he's into?"

"If memory serves me," Mycroft said, frowning, "it's cocaine, and Russian escorts."

"Right, well… we've capped the budget at a tenner, so… biscuits, maybe?"

Mycroft's eyes glinted.

"You are wicked," he said. "Get out. Take your shenanigans with you," he said, and handed back the poster. "Do _not_ add my name to that sheet."

 

*

 

The next night, Greg was summoned back before his husband's desk.

"And what is _this?"_ Mycroft asked, holding up a folded A5-sized rectangle of card, printed with a festive image on the front and a message of seasonal goodwill written inside.

"It's a Christmas card," said Greg. "They're a custom among us peasants in the lower orders, love. You send them to people you like."

"And this part?" Mycroft said, opening up the card and frowning over his reading glasses at the message scrawled inside. _"'Merry Christmas Jeremy mate!'"_ he read out, eyebrow arching. _"'Have a good one. Love to the family and all best wishes for new year from Greg and Myke H-L'."_

"What?" said Greg. "I had to write them. You were busy."

"Yes, thank you for sending these out unauthorised in my name. And thank heavens you chose such a tasteful design," Mycroft added, deadpan, holding up the gaudy cartoon on the front.

A scowling Father Christmas, wedged waist-deep in a chimney, was being photographed on a mobile phone by Rudolph. He was warning the grinning reindeer not even to think about putting this on Facebook.

"What even _are_ facebooks?" Mycroft demanded. "Is this another scheme you've come up with?"

Greg screwed his toes into his shoes, fighting so hard not to grin that he trembled a little.

"I'm just spreading some Christmas cheer," he said. "Listen - I know you're a bit mad. I'm sorry, baby. I should've asked before I wrote them, but there's only a few days until Christmas and I wanted to get them out. I'll make it up to you at home later. Besides, we've already had twelve cards in reply. Can I go now? We're midway through Monopoly and I'm playing against actual real estate tycoons, so I need my wits about me. And I have to keep an eye on the finance guys for cheating. They're sods for it."

"You're - midway through - "

"I brought board games in from home," Greg said. "Got them down from the attic. Don't worry, love, we're playing in silence. Makes it more fun, to be honest… trying not to swear."

Mycroft gazed at him, torn between amusement and despair.

"Gregory," he said. "You're in danger of provoking a festive miracle here. Think what you do."

"I'm just having some fun, gorgeous. Not causing any harm. Besides…" Greg rounded his eyes. "It's Christmas."

Mycroft finally broke into a smirk.

"Out," he said. "Rascal. Tell the staff to send more mulled wine. I now need it."

 

*

 

On the 23rd, as Greg hastily finished a piece of toast and some coffee at the kitchen counter before work, Mycroft - coat buttoned, new leather gloves, and just about to leave - idled up close behind him.

"Darling," he said, and kissed Greg's shoulder. "I've been asked to intervene. Kindly play Buckaroo with members of the Conservative Party as well as Labour. You're causing parliamentary friction."

"They can't handle losing," Greg protested around a mouthful of toast. "And I'm _good_ at Buckaroo."

"Yes, well. The Prime Minister wonders if you could be good at Buckaroo with some regard for the political stability of the country. And, I'm afraid, so do I." He tweaked the last of Greg's toast from his hand, and ate it. "I have the conference call with China tonight. Rather happily, I'll need to be at home for once. Thai food, is it?"

"Oh… sorry, gorgeous. I've - got to be at the club. We're doling out Secret Santa, and we're organising the... something."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted as Greg turned in his arms to face him. _"Organising the something?"_ he enquired.

"Thing for tomorrow," said Greg. "Christmas Eve. Don't worry, baby. I'm handling it. I'll just pop along for an hour tonight while you're gasbagging with China, then I'll be home for Thai food. I promise. Don't order 'til I'm here, will you?"

Mycroft despaired, his eyes shining with mirth. "You will be the end of me," he said. "Now come here."

They kissed - deeply, tenderly, long fingers wrapped in the softest black leather sliding lovingly over Greg's cheeks and gently through his hair. Shivers coursed through Greg's body. Nothing in the world made his heart thump like Mycroft's kisses. It had always been this way, right from the start - and it wouldn't ever change.

As Mycroft made to pull away, Greg pushed a little closer. He kissed Mycroft again, soul shining - _one more kiss,_ he thought. Always one more kiss. Mycroft's arms wrapped around him, holding him safely close, and long minutes passed in quiet happiness.

Myke was going to be late.

But he didn't seem to mind.

"I love you," he murmured against his husband's lips, as they finally drew apart. His grey eyes searched Greg's, gentle and full of care. "You are - quite the marvel to me, darling. In everything you do."

Greg beamed, his heart squeezing.

"You still got tomorrow off work?" he asked.

Mycroft smiled, stealing one last kiss. "Yes," he said. "My first Christmas Eve off in fourteen years. Another machination of yours."

Greg's eyes glittered. "Not made plans, have you?"

A smile spread slowly across Mycroft's lips. "Why?" he enquired.

"Organised a something," said Greg. He stroked his nose against Mycroft's, fondly. "Want you there. I need your support in my political endeavours."

Mycroft couldn't be angry. His smile broke into a grin, gazing into Greg's eyes in wonder.

"What have you organised?" he asked. "For pity's sake, Greg. Put me out of my misery."

"Some good," said Greg. "For Christmas. Call it the apex of my mischief - with a spot of festive goodwill thrown in as well."

"I see. And where will this glorious apex of yours be taking place?"

"Just outside the club," said Greg. "About lunchtime. Catch most of the shoppers that way."

"The shoppers?" Mycroft sighed. "Dear God..."

"I know, baby," Greg soothed. "Don't worry. I'm amazed by me sometimes, too."

 

*

 

A few people hadn't come.

It was fine, Greg thought - let them be miserable old buggers. It would only reflect poorly on them. He'd transformed their gloomy, festivity-free club into the kind of place where board games, mince pies and mulled wine were never far away, and where change wasn't all that impossible. He was going to help Paul with the campaign to admit women in the New Year. He couldn't wait to see the first few walk through the door - and Greg would be right there to greet them, with a handshake and a smile.

For now though, it was Christmas Eve - and there was a bucket to be shaken.

The public school upbringings had helped enormously, he thought, glancing at the steps of The Diogenes Club - where his inaugural Diogenes Christmas Choir were singing _Ding Dong Merrily On High_ to the delight of passing shoppers. Spare change and coins were being liberally scattered into plastic buckets, held by those members whose school _hadn't_ had an award-winning choir. Greg had had a quick count-up after an hour, and estimated they'd already made several hundred quid.

It was all going to a homeless charity in Tower Hamlets.

As a passing shopper cast a handful of change into his bucket, Greg thanked her with a grin. He caught sight of a figure smiling in the watching crowd, and idled his way across, thanking people for their donations as he went.

"What d'you think?" he asked at last, as his husband eyed his approach with a smirk.

"I think you are a scamp," he said. "You have shamelessly exploited my political influence for the good of the less fortunate. Anyone would think it was Christmas, Greg."

Greg laughed. He bent down as a small boy hurried over, clutching two shining pound coins. The boy excitedly dropped them through the slot in the bucket.

"Thanks, fella," said Greg. "Merry Christmas."

As the boy scampered back to his parents, Greg and Mycroft turned back to the choir on the steps. Politicians, bankers, tycoons and men of wealth all stood together, singing in their gloves and winter coats, their faces shining in the bright clear sunlight.

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Dear God, Greg… what _have_ you done?" He reached into his pocket, extracting his wallet. "I dread to think what chaos you'll be causing us next year."

Greg beamed. "Turns out I'm quite the Christmas miracle," he said, and held out the bucket.

As Mycroft folded, creased and slipped in a fifty pound note, he said,

"Happy Christmas, darling. May your mischief make noble men of us all."

 


End file.
